Her Own Brand of Broken
by zzSnowWhiteQueenzz
Summary: "Everything had turned out not the way she had anticipated ... What she had given to the government was sufficient in the end - for the mighty had fallen ... Even if she had anticipated her future, then it would not have been any fairytale that she'd expected. (Charles') Raven had wanted an idyll within the utopia of her powerful and naïve brother, but Mystique knew better."


**Author's notes:**

**This piece of fiction may have themes that you'll find controversial or offensive. It does ****not ****contain ****explicit ****violence or sexual themes, therefore I cannot specify the warnings. Evaluate your level of sensitivity before you read this fic any further. Read at your own discretion.**

**Another warning – contains excessive use of pronouns.**

This piece of fiction has been heavily inspired and takes a lot of elements from a music video of a song (this is **not** a songfic).** However if you are severely allergic to any kind of use of songs **(or more accurately – creations that depict similar scenarios as in a certain music video)** in fanfiction – do not read any further, if you are planning to complain.**

The name of the song and the performer are written in the bottom author's notes (I advise not to scroll down to see it before reading – for if you are familiar with it or plan to watch the video before reading – it will serve as a spoiler).

Set after the events of X-Men: The Last Stand

* * *

**Her Own Brand of Broken**

She woke blearily and unguardedly – not how she had been used to. There was no point in imitating the habits of a dead-woman, just like there was no point in reawakening the dead. Resurrection never gave the wanted result, although _they_ had tried with something they called the _cure_. But Raven was well and long dead – left and forgotten, to never awaken.

Today was to be a _memorable_ day – she was glad that at least her sarcasm was still functioning in her new 'worship' of nihility.

The woman rose from the small and cheap bed, she did so without her famed agility and her grace was severely toned down – neither of these by voluntary choice. She walked to the sink, which was just a few steps away, with the intention of commencing her 'morning' routine – and oh, how such a creature of chaos as she had hated that before. The tap was rusty but did not leak; she washed her face and began the procedure of brushing her teeth.

The reflection in the spattered mirror met her gaze – the toothbrush was abandoned to dangle from her mouth. A woman in her late twenties or early thirties looked back, her hair was short and the bangs clipped back (so that they wouldn't hinder her washing ritual), blue eyes – icy and cold. Black hair, skin as pale as snow, if one were to forget about the sanguine lip part, _"fielen drei Tropfen Blut in den Schnee"_ – the three fallen droplets of blood in the snow, then she would make the perfect Snow White. Yes, the _perfect_ Schneewittchen – she thought to herself mockingly.

To see this in any reflective surface and recognize it as herself – what wouldn't have her younger self sacrificed for that; but she'd been foolish and misguided then, believing that what _they_ wanted – was what she wanted.

She was feeling ugly inside out, while looking close to the definition of true beauty to the _homo sapiens_. Her long slumbered anger awakened, if only for a second. She spat at the mirror image of _herself_ and threw the toothbrush into the sink, it clattered helplessly. Not wishing to be subjected to that detestable physiognomy any longer she turned to the next phase of the day. She entered the shower.

She scrubbed at her body with apathetic vigor, washed her raven-wing hair in the same fashion. A razor blade was provided – for she was no longer believed to be a threat, had been in the beginning but as her new state set in – she was not. She shaved her body thoroughly, not leaving a hair behind in order to attain the perfection of the mythical Greek pantheon. She did not care for her appearance, alas her subconscious survival instincts seemed to have vanity incorporated in them. For she was a _Goddess_, or _had been_ more accurately, but the Gods had _fallen_. However not all would manage to climb back to their station of divinity...

Everything had turned out not the way she had anticipated. If the woman was honest with herself – then she had not planned ahead at all, too blinded by her fervent wish of retribution to see anything beyond it. What she had willingly given to the government was sufficient in the end – for the mighty had fallen. Months later after the unsuccessful storming of the Alcatraz Island, an emotionless warden had offhandedly told her of the fall of Magneto (confirmed by an anonymous source – a clear indicator that it was the X-Men). Her own emotions by that time had fled somewhere, leaving just hints of something drowning quickly in apathy, so she took it as information that it was – nothing more than that. In the end she had been triumphant, although no feelings of any kind had resurfaced within her, just a smidge of self-righteous satisfaction in the vast sea of nothingness.

Even if she had anticipated her future, then it would not have been any fairytale that she'd expected. (_Charles'_) Raven had wanted an idyll within the illusionary utopia of her powerful and _naïve_ brother, but Mystique knew better. It should have been clear though – that no matter how much she cooperated, no matter how much she uncovered – freedom would not be hers to attain (or whatever semblance of freedom the humans understood).

As soon as her interview (interrogation) had ended five officers were already there to take her to custody. She had been still just realizing Mystique's death, so she had resisted. Her combat skills, agility and flexibility were not gifts of her mutation – leading to the death of two of the men and serious wounding of the other three. She could have taken out more of them but they had learned – electroshock therapy combined with copious amounts of tranquilizer, and she was put down like a mangy street cat.

Too serious of an offender to be sent to prison (or so she had initially thought), therefore she had not spent much time in such facilities or in the continent for that matter. She had to be dealt with, however to do it by law (especially since she was no longer a Mutant) she had to be trialed first. A trial would cause too much fuss, the possibility of heavy pressure concerning her sentence arising from the public or other high places – was there. To avoid all that – such a prisoner was not to be left within the States. So she had been transferred. Across the Atlantic, through Europe into Asia. The final destination she had figured out by listening disinterestedly to the conversation of her guards (she cared not for it – details like that were already quite irrelevant to her, but old habits died hard or so the saying went). It was Russia, somewhere deep in the Asian part of it (she was not aware of the exact location). Not in the permafrost regions but it still reminded her of a Siberian Gulag – a twisted aspect of her had appreciated that thought.

It was obvious to her what they intended to do. Illegal sentencing was too much for their oh-so-righteous arses, so the Americans had washed their hands off of her. She had to disappear and what better way to make a person vanish, then to simply 'erroneously' send them away? She was no more than a (pretty) face with no previous recording of it, a lesser known name and an infamous alias attached to it, and of course a long number no one would remember. She was a file in no way more unique than any other. Perhaps that file was even in paper-form (with no digital copy whatsoever), for those were easier to 'misplace'.

She stepped out of the shower. Dressed in a simple pair of black underwear and brasserie, with a white prison gown (although it looked more like the type used for medical purposes) to complete her now usual look. Her short hair was drying fast.

She sat down at the metal table, which centered the room (cell). Having woken up into the late evening she had consequentially missed meals, but she would not be denied of dinner.

She was surrounded by thick concrete, dirtied white ceramic tiles (though they had yellowed and grayed but not due to the lack of cleaning as much as because of age), fences and bars. Her cage was not as small as it could have been and while her past, outdoors loving self would have found it constricting – she did not have enough of herself to mind being locked up. Being surrounded by metal (and there was so much of it: the structure holding everything together within the concrete, the bedframe, the table, the chair, the taps, the pipes, the air-vents and of course the fencing and bars) did not taunt or torment her. All of it simply reminded her of the man that was (_used to be_) the strongest Mutant with abilities that manifested in the physical world, it was just a reminder though – nothing more than that.

But before, oh before, it would have been different, back when things had made sense... Caging her in this metal cell would have equaled to confining Magneto in it – the most foolish decision anyone could make. Because sooner or later Erik would have come for her and torn the whole place down without a second's thought for the human lives crushed within. They had been two faces of a coin, so different yet still the same. One could not have existed without the other... Alas the times had changed, and now, although it had always seemed so impossible, the coin had been split (and it felt as though it hadn't been spilt evenly, for he had taken more of it, taken something that had belonged to her). Musing of coins reminded her of what he could do with such a small piece of metal, she recalled how he had moved Shaw's body out of the grounded submarine, held the corpse with his power for all to see with arms spread out as if in a mockery of crucifixion. But again, that was just a memory – everything of that day, every emotion, the admiration she had come to have for his actions much later – all that was gone; she felt hollowed-out, just a shell of what she used to be.

Some minutes later a gruff and silent guard came into her cell (as the entrance to her cage was opened a loud alarm resounded throughout the vast building), he placed a pair of shiny handcuffs on her wrists – she did not struggle. The binding of her hands signified that her meal was going to be brought soon. She was not to be trusted around utensils, less they'd be used as a deadly weapon. Mystique would have felt a crooked enjoyment at the fact that she was feared and assumed to be a danger, but the blue-skinned Mutant was dead, so it didn't matter.

While waiting for her meal the female inspected her long and pristine clean fingernails. She focused into her right hand and saw as it slowly morphed into the midnight blue lazurite skin of a dead-woman, the lapis lazuli overtook the pallid flesh from the fingertips to the wrist and held strong for about ten minutes. She wasn't even trying hard – it was just a game. Her powers _were_ coming back and if she'd try harder perhaps a quarter of her body would shift back into its state of perfection, before the _cure_ (poison) had hit her bloodstream and turned her insides to mush. The problem lied within the _fact_ that her re_birth_ was taking too much time. Even if she'd been locked up here still as Mystiques, without a foolish guard's approach, she wouldn't have managed to escape anyway. Her prison was nothing special but it was guarded with secrecy and scrutiny that was nearly unbelievable, she hadn't quite seen anything that appeared so lax in guard and in reality was so strong. In the end though, this thinking was for naught anyway.

Her dinner arrived, roasted meat with potatoes and a large amount of sauce – better than the usual. Not that what she had been given prior was slop, it was actually decent food (and she suspected that the employees of this facility were eating just the same). She looked with disgust at the snowy plate filled with still steaming edibles, which rested on a metal tray. With a meager use of force she pushed it from the table, it clattered down to the ground (the idling female guard did not startle nor did she grumble).

She was hungry – yes, a state that she had often found herself in these months of captivity. The amount had been more than sufficient, the quality of the food – good. Since the beginning of her entrapment she'd eaten less than she should. This was not a hunger strike though – those were useless and foolish. The hunger her body experienced was registered by her mind and rejected, body-wise she was famished but she wasn't hungry. To be hungry, in her current state of utter nihility, one needed to care enough – and she just didn't.

Another guard brought the things she had requested, they were placed onto the table (within her hindered reach) without emotion and with enough carefulness so that nothing would be damaged. The mess she'd made on the floor was left alone. The humans did not leave her cell but moved farther to give her some room.

The items that were brought to her consisted of a large empty glass (the soviet kind, with straight grooved lines, a thick rim and the price in kopecks etched onto the outer side of the bottom), a bottle of expensive whiskey, a pack of Belomorkanal – Russian cigarettes, and imported English sweeties. The whiskey she'd reckoned was a tough one to find – but they had to, tradition called for it (it was no more than that though, solicitude was not included). The sweets were easier since they were imported and a label written in kirillitsa verified that. And Belomorkanal was just what she needed, bless the makers – for these were definitely one of the strongest cigarettes available. The lack of a label, on which the amount of all of the hazardous additives would be listed, testified that you just didn't want to know. It did not escape her – the slight irony of her choice, the name literally stood for the White Sea Canal – a line that had been created for the sole purpose of commemorating the White Sea – Baltic Canal, in the construction of which a great number of Gulag prisoners had perished.

She poured herself half a glass of whiskey (a beverage Charles and Erik had so liked) and downed it all in one go. She languidly smoked one fag, stubbing it straight onto the table, and after several generous breaths of air she realized that chain-smoking just wasn't going to work with these – it was of no importance though, she still had time for a few (or more). She continued in a similar fashion; just the amount she poured into the glass varied as did the lengths of time it took her to finish it, she smoked and mixed the acrid taste of cigarettes with the high-sugared sweeties.

Her stomach objected, demanding food, her intestines tensed, they had been smushed into an awkward position (one they'd never been before, despite her (_past_) shapeshifting nature). The two guards were not looking at her any differently (although she was sure that her whole visage screamed for pity and mercy; bah, detestable – she thought to herself).

It was complaining – _how quaint_. And no matter how much she tried to make it malnourished, the_ parasite_ just seemed to get enough of everything to live on and even thrive within her. As though it got all it needed by devouring her insides (which was not visible from her prim shape), alas that wasn't all that incorrect. It was feeding off of her, if not as much by harming her innards, then by draining her _power_. She was sure that her mutation would have returned by now if something were not stealing the strength of her regeneration. And this parasite was another gift from Erik (a parting gift). And hadn't he always left her with presents (some of the good kind, others – not so much): a scar, a belief, a lesson, an ideology, strength and pride, a cause... – not in chronological order, for she did not wish to think of the past, or the future for that matter (the concept would not last for long anyway).

And throughout the years, the _decades_ – it just had to have happened now (the irony of fate was not wasted on her because she had witnessed it, despite the fact that she was submerged in apathy and sarcastic delight). She had had the perfect control of her physical form (both outside and _inside_) before she'd even known what she was doing. The first time she'd bled she had run into one of the many bathrooms of Charles' mansion (thankfully he had been too busy to notice her distress) and hidden. Then at the tender age of about twelve (she did not remember her exact birthdate) she had not known what was happening to her body, she thought that something was wrong and she had been terribly frightened. Without realizing what she was doing she had managed to will the blood flow away, it took her only half of a day – and such an occurrence never happened again. Raven did not menstruate. Later, when she was aware of what it meant, she continued with the alteration – for such a nuisance was absolutely unneeded. When her sex life had begun she had noticed another one of her subconscious doings – she always virtually made herself infertile. Mystique did not ovulate. She'd never asked her one and only lover whether he wanted children because she knew that neither Magneto nor she needed a child (maternal instincts (which she did not have) aside, their Cause was their baby and they had no need for another).

It was laughable really that it had occurred. Stress worked on her too it seemed – although differently than in ordinary women (for she became fertile and not missed a cycle or had a miscarriage. The (then) woman of blue and scale had not been stressed, tense – maybe, but with obvious anticipation of the great battle to come. So somehow, in all of that, she had lost control of her body and became pregnant. The thought of pregnancy had not even crossed her mind. She'd been excited and ready for a fight, and drowning in inner euphoria of having Erik back – he'd been freed (by her hand; foolish were the men that flirted with blue women for they often carried liquid iron with them) and everything had been perfect in her little selfish world once more.

Mystique had died but what she had created – had not. She hadn't had any medical examinations but in her (scarce) knowledge – the pregnancy was progressing very well and the one she carried was healthy (it went on against her wishes and she was not even given the satisfaction of feeling her actions affect the _thing_ that was growing inside her like a tumor). Her math was somewhat approximate, but the parasite was soon to be due. But for all its innate strength and fervent clinging to life, it would not see the light of day – it would die in her dark (human) womb. And she was not fazed by that in the very least, she was desensitized to everything.

Time was moving slowly, it seemed like years. By the time the male guard had said 'vremya' she had already drank half of the bottle and smoked an impressive (due to their strength) number of eight Belomorkanal, the packet of confections was almost empty. She smothered her unfinished ninth cigarette and her last sweet had already dissolved in her mouth.

Her last meal had ended.

The guards attached a chain to her handcuffs and bound her feet, although it was highly unlikely that in her current state she would be able to deliver an impressive kick (still they took no chances with this prisoner, alas it did not matter for she was not going to show any resistance).

The alarm went off accompanied by a red light that shined from above her cell as she was led out. The humans remained close by her sides, however they did not restrain her by hand – she was walking willingly.

The corridors were vast and there were many of them. She did not have to look around, she'd seen it before, though the sights still caught her eye. She knew they weren't underground, the lack of windows was explainable for they were deep in the innards of this beast-like structure. It was a very old prison and not a well-known one too – the woman was sure of that.

The halls went on and on, their pace was steady and the thought that it would be a long walk did not bother her at all. Her sight was ruled by ugly colors of browned walls and rusted metal – and everything else was dyed in similar dark tones. She was somewhat glad that the lights were not fluorescent or halogen – so no buzzing noise or sharpness of light bothered her. It was very dimly lit. Everywhere red alarm lights were mixing with the dirty yellowed glow of normal light bulbs.

It was quite cold (the heating system had to be quite impressive though – for its age, to heat such a huge structure into a habitable temperature anyway). She was barely dressed and her feet were bare of any footwear – thus would not have even been noticed prior, when she'd been a powerful metamorphic Mutant. Still, the chill that lingered in this place did not cause discomfort to her – for it was only registered but not taken any further than that. Beneath her bare feet the concrete ground was exquisitely freezing and damp, the cracks, gravel-like bits of the worn material and dirt – all made the receptors on her soles screech in protest – she just didn't care.

The ceiling was incredibly high, laced with air-vents and pipes, which appeared like the underbellies of giant, ridged metal maggots. A fitting metaphor for such a tomb-like place as this. She was certain that many that were executed or had died from other causes were not buried far away from here (in the cold seasons the ground was too hard to dig, so if this place didn't have a crematorium, then the corpses had to be buried somewhere in the lowers or simply thrown into them – if the workers could not be bothered).

Her throat was clogged, mouth filled with the sticky and sickeningly sweet acidic taste, it was a leftover from her smoking combined with sweeties. However it wasn't a sign of fear; she wasn't trembling nor was her heart rate escalating – she was far too apathetic to her own execution to be afraid of it. All she felt was boredom, the pregnant female was bored out of her mind.

Finally they had reached their destination, it had been quite the lengthy journey. She took notice of the state her body was in and while she wasn't out of breath, she was still somewhat tired – or at least her physique was, it was an unusual thing for her, before she would not have been touched in any way by such a distance. Considering her heavy load added with her confinement to the 'cage' in which she had done little walking, it was an exaggeration but an accurate one to say that her legs were close to atrophying.

The female guard began removing the cuffs from her legs and then her hands, all the while the condemned woman was languidly inspecting the area of her execution. She thought that it was somewhere in the center of the prison (or maybe not; it was very large after all). It was slightly (but only slightly) brighter here than in the corridors she had passed, the space was very large and the ceiling was even higher than in the pathways that had led her here. It was all in the same bland color palette, all raw materials left to the bane of time. The only difference was that of the ceilings, strangely enough they were held by heavy metal beams that resembled dark skeletal ribs and had glass panels. The night overhead was clear and cloudless, she could see stars (even though the windows couldn't be pristine clean – so the number of celestial bodies visible was not great) it was bound to be very cold outside.

Disinterestedly she shifted her gaze to the uplifted podium in the center of the area. There was a tall metal pole, with a ring resting high – where the bound hands of the ones to be executed were fastened.

The unceasing movement of one of the guards drew her attention to her. Without words spoken (although being as gifted as she was with languages, she was fluent in Russian – even though many of the ones that had their native tongue as one of the Germanic group always struggled with Slavic languages), just from actions alone she understood what the impersonal woman was doing (but the reason behind it escaped her). The female was relieving her of the prison gown, untying the ties of it – which was very peculiar. Perhaps they did not want to put holes in the fabric or get it dirtied with blood, or perhaps it was an attempt to humiliate her. _Tough luck_ – she thought to herself, the words heavily entwined with potent sarcasm – she had spent a good portion of her life walking in the nude (or close to it, her scales naturally shifted to cover the tender parts), even if they were to undress her completely – she wouldn't give a damn about it. Furthermore, she was deep in her emotionless pit – nothing would have managed to faze her now.

Soon she was left in her undergarments and the male placed the handcuffs on her hands once more. In the distance she heard a dozen of soldier feet marching in one of the hallways, the echoing sound was strengthening evenly. Ah, the executioners were coming.

She was led the few steps onto the 'scaffold'. A steadying hand of the man was not clamping on her upper-arm hard. The hold was not gentle or careful but it was far from being the opposite, it was soft but with a definite capacity to drag if need be. The guards that had been appointed to her during her stay in this prison were uninterested in hurting her, she was not an exemplary prisoner – she did what she wanted (not that there were any demands or a routine for her to follow), however due to her unresisting behavior they had no real reason to use force.

When the human was in the process of attaching the chain of her cuffs to the ring, the soldiers had already arrived. There were eight of them – so she had miscalculated she noted absentmindedly, there were not twelve booted feet that she heard but sixteen. They were all dressed in customary army outfits, though their dress was heavily outdated (which solidified her assessment of this being a below-the-radar prison). Seven of them had military rifles, the twenty century kind – of course they were without optics. The guns matched well with the clothing and the atmosphere.

The two guards left the area.

She looked at each of the impassive faces of the soldiers, her own obviously portraying how she felt. And although she was an ex-Mutant, a 'cured' Mutant (with the fraction of her returned abilities too miniscule to be of any danger), a slimmer of the old Mystique had returned – she was feeling smug. So she passed each of the physiognomies of the men smugly.

Seven executioners was an odd number (the eighth was clearly the commander). Such a number of men was too big for the deed, the number of bullets may have counted as not taking any chances, but not the number of men. It was ridiculous and she somehow liked it. The soon to be dead-woman humorlessly thought whether they were such lousy shots that they had to take a five to seven chance in hitting the target.

The neat line of armed men quickly lost her interest. The gracefully posed woman at the pole, dressed in only black opaque lingerie with a mockingly taunting rounded stomach, raised her blue eyes upwards. Past the concrete walls and the myriad of twisting and leaking metal pipes, past the second and third storey balconies with iron banisters – which were like parterres of an opera house (a fitting addition if anyone wanted to see the executions, however today they were all empty), all the way up to the glass ceiling. It was winter – so it meant that the roof had been cleaned of snow. The stars were beautiful but she was not in the state necessary to properly appreciate that beauty.

The steady countdown brought her attention back to the executioners. They had their weapons posed and their expressions remained steely and resolute, she looked at them smugly (as if uncaring that her life would end in seconds – and she really didn't care).

The commanding voice was firm as the words travelled over the huge room and bounded into the many corridors.

"Tri"

"Dva"

"Odin"

And then louder.

"Ogon!"

The shots of seven rifles resounded.

Seconds later a telephone rang. It rang long and loud.

No one was picking it up.

* * *

The US ambassador of United Nations – Henry McCoy sat in his office clutching the receiver of the old fashioned telephone, which even had a rotary dial. His breathing was heavy and sweat was beading beneath his blue fur.

It had taken Hank so long to find her. Raven's file had been buried so deep, so deep that even to a man of his position it took months to excavate it from those depths of forgotten documentary. He'd been furious – to find that she had been sent off to some remote prison in Russia! And no one, not even him, had been aware of that. He knew that she had cooperated with the government – but afterwards she had simply vanished. And her disappearance was odd, he had had a feeling that she hadn't just slipped away (and how could she have, when she was cured?). His suspicions had turned out to be true and then the dread had set in. There hadn't been any pardoning for the crimes against humankind that Mystique – the Mutant had committed – and that he could have understood, but there hadn't been a trial. It meant only one thing – _someone_ wanted Raven _gone_, someone wanted Raven_ dead_.

And if not for his own diplomatic point of view, if not for his own sentimentality towards her – then for Charles, for the Professor – he had to save her for him. Charles would have never allowed his own sister to come to harm. Were he to know – he would have definitely stopped her impending death, he would use his telepathic powers without delay (despite his strong belief against abusing power). He would have watched Raven be put behind bars and he would have visited her, but he would've never allowed her to _die_. But the Headmaster of the School for Gifted Youngsters, Professor X, Charles Xavier – was **dead**.

Beast was trying his best. He hadn't wasted any time and from the second he had found out where she was and learned of her fate – he acted immediately. The ambassador had instantly informed his superiors of the unauthorized moving of Raven Darkholme. The President himself had approved the stopping of the execution, he had contacted the President of Russia and negotiated the return of the USA prisoner. And everything had been arranged (and apparently the President of Russia had not known of this transfer and found that he hadn't known of the prison's continued functioning – or he definitely would not have agreed and even sent his ministers from Kremlin to the facility).

Hank though had taken it upon himself to call the prison, he was not willing to wait in case the officials were too late in their arrival. He just hoped that he was not too late himself...

The heavy plastic of the phone was cracking under the grip of his clawed hand. Minutes passed – no one was picking it up. _Oh God, don't tell me that I am too late_ – he thought to himself as icy fear encased his spine.

* * *

The ringing of the phone echoed in the room, it was successfully transferred by a smoking, heavyweight secretory with graying hair to the execution area. The sound died down – without the call being picked up. A loud clanking alarm accompanied by red lights also silenced.

Eight dead bodies lied on the floor, killed by seven bullets.

The woman was mildly surprised – having not expected something like this to happen. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows had risen slightly from her toned-down confusion.

Her cuffs broke. She stepped down from the uplifted area, from the 'stage'.

For a second she looked apathetically at the corpses. Then she turned to her left and there, in the far off corridor stood a familiar figure – _Magneto_.

He had something draped over his arm, she couldn't see well in the dark, it was most possibly his cape. She stood for a moment, not really weighing her options or thinking of what this meant. She gazed at the man blankly, her mind just as blank. She walked towards him, he waited.

When she stopped at an outstretched arm's length from him he handed her a white fur coat. Without waiting for her to put it on he began walking away.

He had to have noticed her _heavy_ state and he had to have known just whose the child was – she thought as she put on the coat. Erik hadn't said anything and neither did she – she was desensitized to him as she was to herself. She did not think of anything and just let her feet take her.

The female matched the male's quick pace, although (as always) she was just a few steps behind him. Her stride was a tad less graceful than Mystique had been, her pregnancy was effectively weighing her down.

* * *

Magneto didn't turn around, he was aware of Mystique's bare footfalls falling on the cold floor as she followed him. He had not allowed himself to expect this to go any differently, there was no possibility of her taking a different path.

Charles would have said that she followed him, her aggressor, like a beating puppy – because she knew no better. Well, he was wrong, he _had been_ wrong – came the hissing correction. But what _had_ Charles known? A great deal of things – true, a great deal of wisdom, but it was all laced with his naivety and disability to see and accept the evil that existed in the world.

Charles had been _wrong_; she had her own brand of broken. Nothing alike it could be found, it was extraordinary. _She had her own brand of broken..._

Professor X's empathy had been unrivaled, often impeccably accurate, alas – not always. Her adoptive brother had offered her his pity, explanations of her choices, he had frequently pushed the blame of her actions onto someone else (onto Erik) – but that was not what either Raven or Mystique needed.

Charles couldn't give her what she needed, but Erik could...

* * *

**A/N**

The music video this piece of fiction was inspired by is White Robe by t.A.T.u. [The English version, not the Russian version (_Beliy Plaschik_) – if you watch the latter, have in mind that it has nudity in it]

The quote in German is from the German version of Snow White (although I am not sure whether it is from the original by the Grimm Brothers). The English line after it is not a direct translations but it is accurate nonetheless.

_Schneewittchen_ – is of course Snow White (the German version of her name).

I have actually heard of unlabeled Russian and Belorussian cigarettes, if there are none of such available now – then they were still purchasable in the 2000s. Two heavy smokers that I know have tried such, smoked one for two – nearly passed out and were terribly dizzy, barely returned back to their campsite. Lol, some smokes, eh? I do not know what brand those were but I still had the idea of strong cigarettes in mind. I've searched for Russian cig lines and found Belomorkanal. Which coincidentally are considered one of the strongest cigarettes in the world. After I had written this fic, I had asked one of those smokers whether it wasn't Belomorkanal, guess what – it turned out to be it!

Another funny fact, the Wolf (Volk) from the soviet cartoon "Nu, pagadi!" (okay, it's supposed to be Latinized with 'o's, but it's so difficult for me when I know that it's pronounced with 'a's) ["Nu, pogodi!"] probably smoked Belomorkanal, because his cigarettes are often bent into a 'Z' shape – and that's what you do with Belomorkanal if you want it to be stronger.

Also, there was that ironical bit of Gulag prisoners dying in the construction of the White Sea – Baltic Canal, since it is Raven's/Mystique's execution day and her place of imprisonment reminded her of Gulags. Plus, she would also find the parallel between Erik's time in Auschwitz and hers in a "Gulag" ironic.

_Kirillitsa_ is the Latinized spelling of the Russian word for Cyrillic script.

About Raven's/Mystique's intestines being about of place, but not in any way that have been due to her shapeshifting, it is another allusion to her pregnancy (because guts do move to accommodate the child when one is pregnant).

Damn, it was so hard to write Russian in Latinized script when in all actuality the words are pronounced so much differently, lol. I am not a native Russian speaker and sadly I cannot read Cyrillic script, but I do understand and can use the language (although its use here – in this fic, is extremely basic).

_Vremya_ – (it's) time.

_Tri_;_ dva_;_ odin_ – tree; two; one.

_Ogon!_ – fire! (in a command to fire one's weapon).

Parterres – now some of you may have thought that I had used the wrong word to describe the balconies in opera houses, because mostly 'parterre' is used to refer to the ground level/first level (where the 'stools' are) in theaters and the upper levels/balconies are called 'boxes'. In my own language I am used to the 'boxes' being called 'parterres', so I had searched the proper name on the net. And where 'parterre' is concerned it is mostly the case that I wrote above (balconies being called boxes), however I've also found that other places are also referred to by that word. The internet is divided on the matter. I chose not the most common version but the one I was familiar with.

**I hope you enjoyed reading and don't forget to review! **


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